He had finally moved his few belongings out of Kay and Harnakht’s cell and joined Thothmes in the next compound after expressing a genuine gratitude to the older boy who had been so kind to him. Harnakht had shrugged and punched him gently on the arm. “You’re not leaving the city, Huy,” he had said. “I’ll still be seeing you every day, so you won’t have a chance to miss me.” But Huy, although he was delighted to settle into his very own room, knew that he would indeed miss the comforting presence of the lanky, affable youth, particularly at night when he sometimes dreamed of his home and woke with an ache of sadness that only the dawn could dissipate.
Thothmes’ half of the cell was always tidy. He did not drop his soiled linen on the floor for Pabast to retrieve, as Harnakht had carelessly advised Huy to do, but folded it and laid it on top of his tiring chest. If he scattered crumbs or fruit pips on his cot, he would pick them all up and place them on his plate. Spilling his morning milk signalled a minor disaster that necessitated an immediate change of bed linen. Although he went to the bathhouse naked like every other boy, he was always careful to carry his sandals so that his feet might remain clean on the walk back to the cell. Huy’s happy disorder distressed him so much—although, generously, he made no comment about it—that Huy did his best to be neater. Thothmes’ ribbon was never soiled, and often his last chore of the day was to immerse it in the compound’s pool and scrub it with his personal supply of natron and a piece of stone until the dust and grime fell away.
Like Harnakht, Thothmes said his evening prayers before his own totem, in this case the god Ra, who stood with the sun-disc headdress on his noble hawk’s head beside Thothmes’ cot. As the son of the Governor of the sepat, Huy was not surprised at his roommate’s choice. He was impressed by the care Thothmes lavished on the statue, dusting it every evening, washing it reverently, and often laying small offerings of food or a flower or two at its feet. “Ra is the father of the gods,” Thothmes explained on their first evening together. “He is also the father of mankind and every other living creature, born from his tears and sweat. How is it that you don’t know these things, Huy? Did your father not teach you about the gods?”
Huy felt suddenly ashamed of his parents. The emotion was new, and it frightened him, so he pushed it away. “I don’t think they care much for the gods,” he said slowly. “I mean, they don’t spend much time praying, and we don’t go to Khenti-kheti’s shrine regularly. But my mother gave me my Nefer amulet, so perhaps it’s not that they don’t care.” He had said almost the same thing to Harnakht not long ago. “I think they are too busy and live too far from the shrine.”
“Well, can they not hire a litter, at least on feast days?”
“No, they can’t,” Huy snapped, and like the shame, a full understanding of his parents’ status opened out in his mind for the first time. There was a gulf between him and the small, intent boy sitting cross-legged on the cot opposite. It was larger and somehow different from the gap separating his father from his uncle Ker. If he had considered the matter at all, he had seen Uncle Ker as a little bigger than his father, taller and fatter, and thus more full of whatever it was that made Uncle Ker able to give him the presents his father could not. But now, seeing them both in his mind’s eye, he realized that in fact Ker was slighter and shorter than Hapu. Ker’s skin was paler, his hands uncalloused, his linens softer. We are poorer than Uncle Ker, he thought with shock. I knew it, but did not really know it until now. And even Uncle Ker is not a nobleman, like Thothmes’ father. “They can’t because they are not rich enough,” he answered his new friend carefully. “They have plenty of food and a servant, but they cannot afford either the time or the cost of visits to the shrine.”
“I’m sorry, Huy,” Thothmes said. “Perhaps when you grow up and become a scribe you will be able to give them their own litter. Here comes Pabast with the lamp. Shall we play knucklebones tonight?”
Huy asked many questions about Ra over the next few weeks. When he was satisfied with Thothmes’ answers, he retrieved his precious scarab and under Thothmes’ admiring gaze he set it at the feet of the god. “You have convinced me of Ra’s power,” he said. “I have missed looking at this treasure, and now, under Ra’s protection, it will be safe and I can enjoy it whenever I want.” He told Thothmes the story of his Naming Day and found himself talking at length about Ishat. “She’s only a girl, but she’s clever and she likes the right games,” he finished. “I expect she would do well here at school.”
“I don’t think girls come here,” Thothmes objected. “Princesses are taught in the palace. Some of the daughters of my father’s friends are learning to read, but they have tutors at home.” He made a face. “I wouldn’t like to have girls in the school. They complain a lot and make a fuss about silly things. Can you imagine a girl learning to swim?” Both boys had been doing well at their swimming lessons. Huy did not want to start an argument by telling Thothmes that Ishat, a year younger than himself, could already swim like a fish.
Huy’s uncle visited him on the last day of the following month, Mekhir. He arrived just as the morning’s class was over and Huy, summoned by one of the temple priests, rolled up his mat and ran into the corridor, where Ker was waiting. The man bent and opened his arms and Huy literally jumped into them. “Uncle Ker! You smell like home!” he shrieked.
Ker hugged him and set him on his feet. “Gods, Huy, can you have grown in just two months?” he exclaimed. “You look very well. Are you happy? The Overseer tells me that you are settling down without trouble. My barge is moored on the lake of the canal and I have permission to give you your meal on board. Would you like that?” Huy grabbed his hand, not knowing whether he wanted to laugh or cry. “Your mother and father and Aunt Heruben all send their love,” Ker went on, turning towards the inner court of the temple. “We miss you so much, but we are very proud of you.”
Huy tugged him to a halt. “There’s a better way to the lake,” he said importantly. “We take it when we have our swimming lessons. Let me show you. Oh, Uncle Ker, I am so pleased to see you!”
“You look fine in your youth lock,” Ker remarked as hand in hand they came out onto the parade ground and followed the left-hand path under the shadow of the wall. “I will tell your mother that she need not grieve for all your curls. She’ll be pleased that you wear the amulet she gave you.” Huy, overcome with a pang of sheer longing for her pretty face, could not reply.
The barge was like an old friend, and running up its ramp Huy remembered the storms of panic that had assailed him on the journey upriver to Iunu. It seemed hentis ago. Now he had two homes, one here and one in the Delta. Mindful of Thothmes’ good manners and of his own position as a legitimate resident of the temple, he bowed to the helmsman and the sailors gathered in the shade the prow was casting over the deck, and waited for his uncle to indicate that he might sit on one of the cushions by the cabin. Ker’s eyebrows rose but he said nothing. The sailors greeted Huy good-naturedly. Ker gestured at the feast set out on the cloth and Huy collapsed beside it with a sigh of pure pleasure. The sun was warm, the barge was barely rocking on the sparkling surface of the lake, and if he took long enough over his meal his classmates would be arriving for their lesson and would see him being feted on this handsome vessel. Even the scornful Sennefer might be envious.
“My crops are growing fast,” Ker said as he served Huy with slices of cold beef and a salad of crisp fresh lettuce, celery, and onion sprinkled with pungent slivers of garlic, “and so are the weeds. That little friend of yours, Ishat, pulls them out, but then she makes garlands of them. The wild flax and poppies and the daisies are too pretty to waste, she says. She sent something for you.” He opened the drawstring of the pouch at his waist and handed Huy a small stone.
Huy rolled it to and fro on his palm, thrilled at how it flashed and glittered in the strong midday light. “Is it gold?” he asked, awed.
Ker chuckled. “No. The flecks in it are called pyrite, but they are as pretty as gold, aren’t th
ey? Ishat picked it up on the shore of the tributary. She thought you might like it.”
Huy set it carefully on the deck. “I do,” he said fervently. “This is the second gift Ishat has given to me. As soon as I’m able I shall write and thank her. Even though she can’t read, she will be thrilled to receive a letter.”
“And that moment will come sooner than any of us expected.” Ker poured beer into two cups and held one out to Huy. “The Overseer and your teacher are very impressed at your rapid progress. I was not wrong to send you here, Huy. Is there anything you lack? Anything you need?”
Huy put his nose into his cup. The beer, thick and dark, smelled of musk, but its bitter taste was oddly agreeable. “Yes, there is, Uncle Ker. I would like a statue of Khenti-kheti to put on the table beside my cot. All the other boys have their totems with them.”
Ker glanced at him shrewdly. “I expect they do. But why do you desire the god’s presence?”
Huy licked the froth off his upper lip. “Because Khenti-kheti protects Hut-herib and I am from Hut-herib, therefore the god will protect me. I am his son.”
“You are indeed,” Ker agreed. “Very well, Huy. If you will accord the god the proper reverence due to him and say the prayers each evening, I will bring him to you next time I pass through Iunu. If the priest at the shrine writes out the prayers for you, will you be able to read them?”
Huy shook his head. “Not yet. But my teacher will help me.”
“Good. You seem to be acquiring a new and somewhat surprising interest in the state of your soul. Do you like the other boys here?”
“Most of them.” Huy settled down to tell his uncle all about Harnakht, Kay, and Thothmes, the objectionable Sennefer, and the lofty inapproachability of the jewelled and perfumed young men who fascinated him.
Ker laughed at the way he described them. “Before you know it, you too will be tall and beautiful. I am very proud of you, Huy. You are a credit to all of us at home.”
The beer had made Huy sleepy. He yawned, thinking of his cot in the coolness of his cell. Ker indicated the cabin. “Crawl onto the cushions in there and rest,” he offered. “I must do business with the High Priest this afternoon. I have incense gum for him and a quantity of kyphi perfume for the dancers. My men will remain on board.” He leaned over and kissed Huy’s hot forehead. “Don’t worry, the Overseer knows where you are.”
Huy had not seen the Overseer since that first miserable day when Ker had deposited him in this place that had seemed so vast and terrifying. But I suppose, he thought as he burrowed into the cabin’s cushions and drowsily watched the slatted pattern of light around him, that he must know everything about everyone here or he wouldn’t be an Overseer. The cabin felt like some animal’s den, cozy and safe. Voices and the rhythmic shush of sandals on paving came to him pleasantly muted. The odour of the barge’s wood was like the music of some old, familiar lullaby, and as he fell asleep Huy fancied that he could also smell a panful of perch frying over a fire on a sweet spring evening by the river.
Ker’s vessel pulled away from the temple watersteps just as Huy’s swimming class wandered into sight. Huy was disappointed. He would have liked the other boys to have boarded the barge, however briefly. But Ker was on his way to Weset and had many river miles to cover. He had said an affectionate goodbye to his nephew, and Huy was sad as he watched the helmsman clamber onto his high seat and grasp the tiller. For a moment he wished he might be making the journey to that holy city where the King sat on his golden throne and all the men around him must surely look like the nobles’ sons here at the school. But then Thothmes called him and the others were leaping into the water with screams of delight, and Huy began to shed his kilt and loincloth. It had not occurred to him to want to go home.
3
OVER THE NEXT TWO MONTHS, the fixed routine of life at the school gradually became a matter of second nature to Huy. He no longer had to run to Harnakht for direction or reassurance if he could not remember where he had to be or what was coming next. The rhythm of his days—eating, washing, studying, exercising—even the walls of the precinct itself, provided a womb of predictability inside which he could safely flourish.
Long before Thothmes had finally learned to negotiate the many rooms and passages himself, Huy knew them, and the other boy’s temporary dependence on Huy accelerated the bond already growing between them. Huy was not tempted to exert control over his cellmate as he had always tried to do over Ishat. He might have Thothmes at his mercy where a corridor branched, but Thothmes was his better in the knowledge of the many things the pupils in their class took for granted. Huy absorbed information quickly, holding his tongue when the conversation turned to the family lives of those who were his social superiors. He was making swift progress under his teacher’s critical eye and could comfort himself with the knowledge that, although this boy might be the son of a governor or that one belong to one of the King’s Overseers, he himself had a sharper mind and a greater love for the hieroglyphs he was beginning to manipulate.
Sometimes the classes were cancelled in order that a god’s feast might be celebrated, and the boys with families in Iunu went home. Huy was granted permission to spend these days with Thothmes in his father’s house by the river. At first the size and grandeur of Thothmes’ home made him tongue-tied and shy. Thothmes was the darling of three older sisters who teased and petted him, much to his irritation, and seemed pleased to have another child to cosset, but Huy remained in awe of Thothmes’ father, a man with a temperament very like his son’s, engaged in the world around him but somehow aloof. The house with its verdant garden, airy rooms, and host of servants, its watersteps overhung with willows where both skiff and barge rocked invitingly, seemed opulent to the boy from a farm in the Delta. Thothmes had laughed at Huy when he first expressed his admiration. “Father is only a governor,” he had said. “We are comfortably rich, but you should see the estate of the Vizier.” They had been lying stretched out one above the other on the watersteps after practising their swimming strokes, the shapes of their damp bodies forming like shadows around them on the warm stone.
“Is Sennefer’s home like this?”
“Yes, and he doesn’t deserve what he has. His mother spoils him. She gives him everything he wants. His father argues with her about it all the time, but it makes no difference. That’s why he lives at the school. His father insisted, to get him away from her. So I hear my father telling my mother when they think I’m not listening.” Huy looked up at his friend. Thothmes was lying on his stomach and peering over the edge of the step. Water from his dishevelled youth lock dripped onto Huy’s cheek. “He isn’t learning anything much, and I do hope that our Blessed God and King will not make him governor when his father dies. He is too cruel and stupid to govern the rats in the grain silos, let alone even a small sepat like Nart-Pehu.”
Huy thought that Sennefer’s parents sounded very like his own. Did his mother not spoil him, and had his father not insisted that he be sent away to school, thanks to Uncle Ker’s generosity, for that reason? It occurred to Huy that he might be a little like Sennefer himself—but surely not cruel or stupid. “Don’t you think that the Good God might already be sailing in the celestial barque by the time Sennefer is old enough to hold his father’s office?” he inquired.
Thothmes snorted. “Certainly not! And even if that is true, he will still guide our country through the Hawk-in-the-Nest Amunhotep, his son. Perhaps the King would send Sennefer to the Tjel, or one of the garrisons along the Horus Road,” he added hopefully. “My father says that Sennefer ought to be learning soldiering because he will never make a good administrator.” He rolled onto his back and out of Huy’s sight. “I overheard him say that to my mother, but I keep it to myself, as a good scribe would.”
Huy closed his eyes against the sun’s glare. Thothmes’ words had prompted a new and rather unnerving train of reflection, and for the first time Huy wondered what his own future might be. His mother had sometimes said things like,
“When you take over your father’s work in Ker’s fields …” and, “You must not be rude to the field workers, Huy. You might be the Overseer of their sons one day,” but he had not paid her much attention, seeing that he would always be free to play in the garden with Ishat and the frogs and have Hapzefa to look after them all. It had already become clear to him that his father was really not an important man at all. It did not matter that he helped to supply Pharaoh’s perfumer with the blooms, fruits, and seeds needed to produce the exotic blends that were famous throughout the world; he was a man with dirt under his fingernails. What was it that had been written about the gardener? Huy’s teacher had read aloud the long admonitions to a boy beginning his studies. The anonymous author had intended them to be a warning and an encouragement to those struggling to master the skills of a scribe. Thothmes would remember; his powers of recall were remarkable. But Huy did not want to bring up the subject of his father’s occupation. Some of the lines he could remember himself. “The gardener fetching with the carrying pole, his shoulders are the shoulders of old age …” something something something “… he has laboured in the sun and afterwards his body aches. He is too old for any other occupation.” There were blanks to be filled in later, when the class began to write and memorize the exercise, but the sense of this particular stanza was clear. Huy sighed. He would prefer to spend the rest of his life either at school or running about his home, but if he had to grow up—and here the first intimation of his own mortality fled across his mind and was gone—then it had better not be as a man who laboured in the sun and had an aching body.
“Why are you sighing?” Thothmes demanded.
The Twice Born Page 8
